Molly by Moonlight
by LizAMWriter
Summary: Post-TRF, pre-Series 3…Sherlock's learning curve on matters of the heart becomes the thing that stands in his way of happiness, and Molly is there to push him in the right direction. Dr. John Watson struggles with his grief and finds Molly in the process. Molly comes to want the impossible: both Sherlock and Watson. Story has been reworked.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Summary: Post-TRF fic…Sherlock's learning curve on matters of the heart becomes the thing that stands in his way of happiness, and Molly is there to push him in the right direction. Dr. John Watson struggles with his grief and finds Molly in the process. Molly comes to want the impossible: both Sherlock and Watson. Story has been reworked.

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight

"You were wrong you know," Sherlock broke the silence of the dead as Molly walked swiftly across the cold and dark lab.

She startled until she recognized Sherlock's familiar form in the darkness.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. And you were right. I'm not ok."

"Tell me what's wrong," Molly said out of habit, out of a need to be close to a man who didn't know how to be close to anyone. A man she had loved and longed for for a long time. She watched the uncertainty in his step as he made his way toward her.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." His words blunt and offering no explanation.

"What do you need?" She tried to keep strong reactions out of her voice, concerned it might turn him away.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still help me?" For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure he would hear the answer he expected to hear.

"What do you need?" Molly's eyes widened as Sherlock closed the distance between them. She stared at him as he towered over her.

"You," Sherlock's voice broke, not at all reflective of the confident tone he usually assumed. Certainly not the condescending one Molly was used to. She stared up at him a full minute before she softly cleared her throat and attempted to speak.

"Sherlock, please, I can see you're in trouble, can hear in your voice that something serious is happening. Won't you just tell me what I can do to help you?" Her eyes pleaded the truth of her words.

Sherlock was overcome with unexpected…sentiment. He remembered throwing that word at John some time ago, but never expected to feel it now. When Molly discounted herself as someone who didn't count earlier in the day, he understood that she shouldn't think otherwise based on his words and actions. Perhaps he had even helped those notions actively in self-preservation.

"Molly, I need you to help me die." He waved her quiet as he turned from her, in full planning mode. "Moriarty wants me dead. He and his assassins need to see me dead. If they don't…"

"What?" Molly said after a moment. He wasn't looking at her.

"My friends die. I'm not a murderer, Molly, whatever you may think of me. I have the solution to this problem."

Molly placed her bag on the counter and took off her jacket. She sighed wearily. "How much time do we have to make you dead?" Even as she said the words, they sounded improbable to her own ears.

"Less than 24 hours, I think. Moriarty is waiting for me to make contact. I won't keep him waiting. We can work through this night and tomorrow I'll contact him." Sherlock once again approached Molly. She stared at him as before, wide-eyed and uncertain.

"What else, Sherlock?" She couldn't bear the intensity of his eyes searching hers any longer, and so she found her hands in need of her attention. The truth was she wasn't at all sure she understood what was going on, and even less sure she could convince everyone Sherlock was dead.

"Molly, look at me," Sherlock hesitantly reached out and touched her cheek, an airy caress really. He heard her sharp intake of breath; searched her weary eyes. He had her attention. "I am not given to expressions of gratitude or other sentiments, but if I were, this would be a moment I would express them." He willed her to understand what he did not say.

Molly chewed her lower lip for a moment and then nodded, once. Not exactly the stuff of her dreams, but it was as intimate a moment as she could hope for with Sherlock Holmes, and she would take it.

"Alright, then. We need to get to work. Have any academic bodies arrived over the last day or so?"

"Yes, three. Two men and one woman," Molly was already walking toward the freezers. This was her element, and she would be successful; she had to be, or Sherlock and his friends were in terrible danger.

"**Remarkable," Sherlock breathed **as he stared at the corpse which would take his place.

"If I had more time…" Molly began, still leaning over the unidentified man, putting the finishing touches on him. So intently was she concentrating, she didn't realize that Sherlock was leaning over her shoulder until she felt him shift behind her.

Sherlock had no sense of personal bubble space, not that she was complaining at the moment. She felt his breath on her neck, felt arms on either side of her as he leaned over her right shoulder. She willed herself not to react, even as her heart rate sped up and her breathing changed. Damn hormones.

"Why are you adding that little scar?" Sherlock pointed at her hand as she replicated a tiny shaving nick Sherlock had under his jawbone.

"Because it's part of your face," Molly finished and straightened up, feeling her back touch Sherlock's chest. She stiffened.

"You notice my shaving nicks?" He asked with wonder, not moving.

"I notice everything about you," Molly said the words before she could stop herself, and she blushed fiercely. The last thing she wanted was to sound like the love-sick puppy she knew she was in his presence. She steeled herself for the inevitable cruelty.

Sherlock was dumbfounded. He noticed things about people because they often belied deceit, but why would anyone observe his shaving nicks? He didn't know how to answer her, and so he stepped away from her, immediately feeling a bereftness he did not want to think further on.

Molly cleared her throat and turned around to face him. She was still blushing, only a deeper red if possible.

"Well, what is it?" he asked none too gently.

"You need to strip," Molly said with as much authority as she could put in her voice.

"What? Why?" Sherlock looked at her with trepidation.

"Sherlock, I need your clothes. If this man is you, even just for identification purposes, then he should be wearing your clothes, don't you think? I'll get you scrubs to wear until you can get back to your flat." She walked into a supply closet and grabbed a shirt and pants set for him. When she came out of the supply closet, Sherlock had removed his jacket and shoes. Molly placed her offering on the lab counter and turned around to walk out. "I'll give you a few minutes," she threw over her shoulder as she left.

"**Alright, my friends** in the mobile unit are set up and ready to go. Remember, you must not be seen after we set the body in your place. They will make sure no one gets close enough to touch…you…but you must…" Molly was going over her checklist.

Sherlock, seated beside her and leaning in to look at their plan, sighed as he put his head down on her right forearm. She stopped rambling.

"Are you ok?" She offered perfunctorily in the wake of his silence.

"I'm fine," Sherlock automatically responded. Then he sighed and looked at Molly's face. She was worrying her bottom lip again. He frowned; she did that too often in his presence lately. Without thinking his fingers followed his eyes, and Molly's own eyes widened as two digits traced her swollen lips.

Molly didn't move, not wishing to break the spell. In his eyes she saw almost a child-like curiosity. Too soon his fingers were gone and before she could blink he was putting distance between them and rattling off some last minute directives. She shook her head and quickly made note of what he needed. After a moment of silence, she thought he'd gone and turned round, only to see him watching her, still from a considerable distance.

"Sherlock?" Molly questioned.

"I'm going to die in a few hours' time. If all goes to plan, I'll be out of the country by the time Mycroft is identifying my body."

"Yes."

"What I said before…I…thank you, Molly. Thank you for helping me die today."

Molly didn't laugh at the absurdity of the moment, because she was afraid it would sound maniacal and she would start to cry then. She nodded and turned to make a few last minute adjustments to the body. "You'll be fine here in the lab until the hour of reckoning; stay as long as you like. I'm off to set some things under way." Molly turned back once more, gave Sherlock a tight smile, and left out the back office door.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight - Chapter 2

It was done. Molly was alone in the lab once again with Sherlock's "body" for the second time in 24 hours. This body was staged: bruised and bloody. She stared at it, replaying Mycroft's identification of Holmes' "body" in her mind: his coldness, Lestrade's disbelief, and John's grief. When John looked at her with his heartbroken eyes, her knees buckled and she would have fallen to the floor had it not been for Lestrade's quick reflexes. She supposed it made the whole scenario more believable, anyway.

Molly glanced at the clock: 10:30pm. It was time for her to leave, she knew. She hadn't slept in the past two days, and she would need sleep to face the upcoming days. She pulled the sheet over the doppelganger and closed the freezer door. He would be processed by the funeral home first thing in the morning; after all, the less people who saw the body, the better Sherlock's chances were of getting out of England safely.

**As Molly walked** the quiet street, she reflected on how empty her life would be from now on. Certainly, she had the advantage of knowing that Sherlock was not dead, but neither would he be gracing her morgue anytime soon. He wouldn't come back until he could do so safely, which meant killing every last one of Moriarty's bastards. Molly tried not to think the unthinkable: what if he really did die in a fight and she never knew? What if for her whole life every time the damn morgue door opened, she looked up expecting his appraising, ice-blue eyes, but never saw them again?

Despite her best efforts, tears coursed down Molly's cheeks in an uncontrolled cascade. Who would see or care now? She unlocked the door to her modest flat, felt for the light switch, closed the door, and leaned her head against the hard wood. It was stronger than she felt at the moment, and she let it have her weight as she sobbed anew. Toby came to her and she felt him brush up against her legs a few times before he left.

_Strange_, she thought. _He usually stays by me at least until I feed him. Cats._

Molly threw her bag and keys on the kitchen table and made her way to the bedroom. All of a sudden, she couldn't get her clothes off fast enough, as if they alone were the cause of her sorrow and nausea. She didn't bother to turn on the bedroom light as she quickly kicked off her shoes and stripped off her slacks, leaving them on the floor. Molly unbuttoned her top and went into the bathroom to take a shower. She turned on the light and realized her robe was in her bedroom. As she turned round to go back, the light from behind her illuminated the corners of the room in front.

"Oh my gosh!" Molly held back a scream as she realized someone was in her reading chair by the window. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the someone was bent over with his head resting in his hands.

Those beautiful, violin-playing hands.

Molly's breath left her in a whoosh as she padded quickly towards Sherlock in her reading chair. His eyes were closed and his breathing even. She knelt down in front of him and stared at the peaceful look on his face. He had to be uncomfortable, but still he appeared to sleep. She reached out a trembling hand and moved a dark curl out of his eyes.

Those eyes suddenly looked at her, brilliantly blue and wide awake. Molly didn't say anything; she wanted to run her hands along his high cheekbones and along his full lips. Instead, she released his hair and moved her arm slowly away.

Sherlock felt her hand leave his hair, then saw her withdraw from his personal space. He realized he didn't want that just yet. He gently grabbed her wrist and saw her eyes widen. Those eyes that were so red and swollen. Had she been crying? Why on earth would she do something that insipid?

"Are you ok?" she resorted to her usual script with him. But beyond that question were all the things she longed to ask but couldn't. How did the suicide thing go? How long have you been here? Why _are _you here anyway?

"I'm fine," Sherlock's voice was husky with sleep. Perhaps he'd been out longer than he thought. "What time is it?" His hand still gently encircled Molly's wrist, and now rested on his thigh.

"Around 11, I think." Molly was suddenly aware of more than his fingers gently caressing her wrist; she doubted he even knew he was doing it. Here she was, kneeling before Sherlock in a gaping open blouse and undergarments. With her free hand, Molly attempted to close her shirt. She averted her gaze when his eyes followed the motion of her hands; she didn't want to see his patented look of consternation or disgust.

Instead, Molly missed the look of fascination and arousal that played out on Sherlock's countenance. At that last thought, he did let her hand go. She stood and turned away from him, intent on covering up. She was laid bare before him day after day as it was, no sense in giving him more imperfections to make deductions from.

"Why did you come back? It's not safe for you to be in England now." She fastened her robe's belt around her waist.

"Something came up and I decided to stick around for the time being." He watched her absently as she kept her hands busy straightening the knick-knacks on her dresser. As she stood closer to the bath light, he saw the tear stains on her face and the smeared eye makeup.

"I see. Well, you can't be seen about London, Sherlock. However you intend to conduct your unfinished business, you need to lay low for the next few weeks at least." She walked over to sit on the bed opposite the reading chair he still inhabited. "Stay here with me."

Molly's tone brokered no argument, but Sherlock was never _told_ what to do, except maybe by John under very extenuating circumstances. He started to balk, but then thought better of it. Perhaps it would be the most logical thing. He could not go back to Baker Street, and he certainly couldn't present himself to his brother. He nodded.

"Right, you can have the guest bedroom. I'll go make up the bed."

Then she was gone, and he followed her to the bedroom a few feet down the corridor. Sherlock just watched, ducking as one pillow then another sailed near his head. When she was finished smoothing out the sheets, she grabbed the pillows Sherlock had picked up and tossed them to the head of the bed.

"It's been a long day, you should try to sleep," Molly moved to step around his tall frame. Instead, Sherlock stopped her with his hand on her arm.

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You've been crying."

"Yes, Sherlock. I've had to watch your closest friends grieve today. See John's face…" this last whispered so that Sherlock had to bend forward to catch the words. "Just an hour ago, it was a real possibility that _I_ might never see you again."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to this. He knew what he felt standing on the roof, talking to Watson. He felt his voice break on the words he hated saying. He knew it was for their own good, all of them, but he never considered they would cry for him. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming need to see Watson. Watson couldn't know he was alive, but Sherlock would go somewhere to observe him unnoticed.

Presently, Molly was tugging her arm out of his grasp. "I need to sleep, and so do you. What time do you want breakfast?"

"7:10am," he absently said the words; his mind still with John Watson.

"Right. Towels and blankets are in the closet there if you need them. I'm for bed." Molly walked to the door and Sherlock's voice stopped her before she crossed the threshold.

"I know I'm not easy, Molly," a pause, then, "Good evening."

Her back still to him, she nodded and walked down the short corridor to her room. Molly leaned against the door once she was inside her bedroom. She knew Sherlock had offered her something he didn't offer lightly – a treaty of sorts, a moratorium on his insufferable antics. She was simply too tired to appreciate it just then. Running her hands over her face and through her hair, she realized she never did get that shower she so needed. With sudden purpose, she moved toward the bath.

**Sherlock lay atop** the freshly made bed, listening to the shower through the wall. He was never one given to fancies toward either gender, really, but something in him was becoming different around Molly. He didn't mind her being close enough to touch, and lately he couldn't stop his hands from reaching for her. And that was when she had all of her clothes on. He felt an unmistakable surge of lust when he awoke to find her kneeling before him with an open shirt and little else on. He never felt anything but suspicion for people, but instead of insulting Molly, he sought to delay her flight from him. He turned over to his side and adjusted the feather down pillow. Molly actually had a rather nicely decorated home.

He had walked around, examining her flat at length before she arrived. She was always flittering about the morgue, mostly in response to his many requests for body parts or experimental fluids, and he expected her home to be, well, girly. But her home was different: it bespoke of someone who longed for a sanctuary from the darkness of her life's work. Her furniture was mostly light woods, and her décor held splashes of greens, yellows, and blues in the towels, plates, and wall paintings. She didn't have many photos lying about, except those of Toby and an unidentified man and woman in two older pictures.

Sherlock tossed to his other side. He had to sleep now; he may not have a chance later. He closed his eyes again and willed himself to turn his mind off.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight - Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke with a start. Something had woken him, and he glanced at the radio clock as he threw his legs over the side of the bed. 3am. He paused as he rose, hearing the noise again. It was a whimper. He knew Toby was about the house somewhere and thought it might be him.

"Sherlock, no!"

He was down the corridor and standing outside of Molly's bedroom before he had time to think about her cry. He cautiously opened the door, not wishing to startle her if she were awake. He saw a flood of moonlight illuminate Molly's still-sleeping form. She moaned into her pillow in distress and threw her arm above her head. The movement slid the sleeping covers down to her waist. Sherlock tried to ignore the delicate chemise she wore, tried not to ingrain the image in his brain. It was a feeble attempt at best, even he would admit that. He stood in Molly's doorway watching her sleep long after the nightmare left her. Toby's inquisitive gaze was on him all the while.

**Molly was at **the kitchen counter chopping an onion for omelets when Sherlock saw her the next morning.

"Good morning," she was her ever-jovial self outwardly, but Sherlock's practiced eyes picked up on her restless night.

He didn't say anything as he picked up the newspaper and began skimming the headlines. With a harrumph, he pushed the paper away. London was boring today. Perhaps just as well, since he would have to stay in Molly's flat all day. At this thought, he glanced at her and rolled his eyes when she dropped the whisk, sending egg yolk spattering across a foot of the counter.

Molly mopped up the wet egg drops and continued to whisk. She stopped at his voice, which to her ears was one trying overly for nonchalance.

"How did you sleep, then?"

She debated how to answer that question, and finally decided on, "Fine, thank you. You?"

He sighed as she poured the eggs in the fry pan. "I wasn't being kind, Molly. I heard you last night. I know you had unhappy dreams."

She set the cover over the fry pan and turned round to face Holmes. "Unhappy?" she shook her head. "No, Sherlock. Not unhappy dreams. Desperate, yes. Terrifying, yes. Haunting, even." How much had he heard? What had she said? She didn't know, but there wasn't a point in evading his question.

Sherlock gazed at her evenly. He wanted to say something to make her feel better; he simply didn't know what. Then the moment was gone and she was putting an omelet and a cup of tea in front of him. She took the seat opposite him at the small dining table. They ate in silence for a while, then Sherlock spoke.

"Molly, what about John's face?"

She put her fork down and paled a little, remembering the horror in his eyes. "He looked…disbelieving, then angry, then inconsolably sad and broken. Then all at once he gathered himself and I couldn't see through the wall anymore."

"I never planned…"

"I know," she cut him off, "but you can't plan people's emotions. Don't you understand yet?" He frowned at her, so she continued. "Sherlock, after spending five minutes with you, people either hate you – like that Donovan and Anderson – or…"

"What?" He allowed his fork to clang loudly against her flatware, wishing she would make her point already.

"Or, they fall in love with you. And God help them then." She stood and cleared the table. He didn't offer to help. His mind rambled around a bit.

"You think John is in love with me?"

"Of course he is." After putting the dishes in the dishwasher, she began scrubbing the fry pan clean. Sherlock was beside her in an instant, and she stopped scrubbing and looked up at him.

"John knows I'm married to my work."

"Yes, well, love isn't logical. Knowing something in your head doesn't stop the feelings…the fantasies…" she trailed off.

"The nightmares?" he asked thickly, leaning so close to her he could smell her shampoo.

Molly closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. His proximity was distracting and his words relentless in their soft accusation. She nodded, and then decided to get back to John while redoubling her scrubbing efforts. "John bears the burden of worrying about you even when you're stood right next to him. I can't imagine what it's like for him thinking you're dead."

"And you?"

She looked at him again. "I don't hate you, Sherlock."

He blinked in surprise.

"But it doesn't matter. I don't…"

"_Don't_ say it. I'm here, aren't I? I'm…right here."

Molly's gaze was sad, searching his face for some clue that he understood this whole wretched situation was breaking her heart. Instead, she saw his eyes darken, darting from her eyes to her mouth. She inhaled sharply when he moved closer.

"Molly, I'm not given to…"

"I know," she whispered as they leaned closer to one another.

The sound of broken china made them both start. Molly whirled to see that Toby had knocked a teacup to the floor. She grabbed a towel and went to clean the mess. After sopping up the liquid and carefully wrapping the broken pieces in a towel, she turned around with a shy smile.

But Sherlock had left the room.

_Well, so much for our first morning together_. Molly glanced at the clock and then hurried to get ready for work.

**Sherlock spent a **long time thinking after Molly had gone. He didn't acknowledge her shy "goodbye", just steepled his fingers and stared into space for several hours. Never in his life had he felt the urge to comfort or care for anyone. It was much easier to be Sherlock Holmes without sentiment. Much easier for people to think he was a heartless, cold robot than for anyone to think they could be close to him. But Molly was different. She knew she would never be close to him; she just enjoyed being physically near him and occasionally trying to get his attention. Before he realized it, he had been in his mind for over six hours. He was restless and wanted to go out, but didn't dare. Instead, he went into the kitchen and began opening the cupboards, hoping for more insight into Molly. He didn't understand her ramblings, but he did understand loyalty, and she was loyal to him. He could work with that.

John, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether. John was a man like him. Oh, not exactly the same inner workings, but they were complimentary creatures. Could it be that Molly was right? Could John be in love with him? Would it make it different for them if they acknowledged it? No, Sherlock quickly decided. It would make things much more complicated and John would just be embarrassed or for Sherlock's sake deny it altogether. Besides, Holmes wasn't at all sure how he thought about John's sentiments. He wasn't put off by them, exactly, just confused by them.

Oh, he was so _bored_. Where was Molly anyway? It seemed like she had been gone for days. He looked in the refrigerator. Perhaps he would fix dinner. Loyal people appreciated things like that, didn't they?

**When Molly at** last walked through the door, she was glad to be home, but anxious as to the state of her house. After all, Sherlock had been by himself all day, and she knew what he kept in his own flat. But her worries were allayed when she smelled dinner. She dropped her bag and keys on the counter and went into the kitchen. Somehow he had managed a ham and potato casserole. She shook her head; she'd never known him to eat and he had managed twice in one day to make food a priority. She looked for him in the living room but didn't see him. And Toby hadn't been out to see her either.

That thought gave her pause and she frowned, headed to the bedrooms.

"Sherlock?" she knocked on his door. It wasn't closed shut so she pushed the door open. Nothing. Ok. Perhaps against all common sense he had left the flat. He hadn't left a note, and he hadn't sent her a text, but with Sherlock, one never knew.

Molly pushed open her bedroom door and kicked off her shoes. She took her hair clip out and let the natural waves have free reign. She walked into her bath and saw a dark head above a full bathtub.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry!" she covered her eyes and turned to walk out.

"Wait, can you hand me that towel?" Sherlock wasn't the least bothered by Molly's intrusion. The water had gone cold anyway.

"Oh here," now she sounded annoyed as she passed him the towel, her face still turned away from him. He heard her sniffing the air. "Did you use my bath salts?"

"I was experimenting with your bath ritual." He wrapped the towel around his waist.

"How did you know about that? Wait," she held up her hand, still looking at the wall. "Never mind. I'm going to leave now. Just…please put some clothes on."

Molly didn't want to be anywhere near a naked Sherlock Holmes. Some days it was already too painful to be near a fully clothed Sherlock. She busied herself plating dinner and was just sitting down to it when Sherlock joined her at the table. She must have looked like she wanted to say something, because at length he broke the silence.

"What?"

She blushed. "Nothing."

"Molly, please don't insult my intelligence or yours by lying to me. I'm only asking because I'm bored and you could have something entertaining to say."

She colored again, this time from anger. "While you've been _bored_," she exaggerated the word, "your friends have been planning your funeral."

He looked up from his barely-touched plate, carefully watching her now.

"It was yesterday all over again. The funeral home came for your…the…body, and John couldn't bear it. He was so angry and hurt. Your brother finally took him away to help with the arrangements, otherwise he would have sat in my lab all day. Sherlock, this may not mean anything to you, but he's hurting. I think you should consider telling him you're not dead."

Sherlock waived a dismissive hand. "You know what will happen if I do. It has to be real, all of it, for a while. Just until I can hunt Moriarty and his men down."

Molly nodded. "I know, I thought you might say that. The funeral is tomorrow at 10. Closed casket, closed ceremony. Not to last too long."

"Are you going?" he spoke around an emotion he didn't understand.

"Yes. It would be rather odd if I didn't, don't you imagine?" She pushed the food around her plate, not hungry anymore. More pain and she couldn't ease it, not for herself, not for her friends.

Sherlock was quiet for so long she thought he was in his mind again. She noticed the bags under his eyes and the slight wrinkle of concentration on his forehead. His black hair was still damp from his foray in her bathtub. Not wishing to disturb him, Molly made quick work of the kitchen and escaped to her den.

She picked up the book she had been reading. Books had always been one of her best and most constant companions. She couldn't tell how long she had been reading when she felt Sherlock sit beside her. He was so close her left side was completely flush with his right side.

"Oh, sorry," she put her book down. "If you want to watch telly I'll go in my room."

Sherlock's hand on her arm stopped her from getting up. "No, please, stay."

She relaxed into the cushions again. He kept his hand on her arm, caressing it as he would his violin. She had no idea what to make of his touches lately, but they unnerved her. She wished he would go back to his thoughtless deductions. She didn't speak, neither did he. They both watched his hand on her arm. Molly waited a while for Sherlock to say something, and after he didn't, she picked up her book and tried to concentrate on the story.

After an hour or so had gone by, she gently cleared her throat to bring Sherlock to the present.

"I'm going to sleep. I need to be at the morgue at 3am. If I don't see you, I'll be home late afternoon tomorrow."

Sherlock's eyes were kind. "Tomorrow afternoon, then."

**Sherlock waited for** Molly's breathing to even out before he went in her room. This time, he sat in her reading chair beside her bed. Toby crawled in Sherlock's lap and purred until the detective nodded off to his gentle vibrations.

**When Molly got** up for work, Sherlock had long since gone to his own bed. She was none the wiser about his nocturnal visits. The pathologist picked out a simple black frock for the funeral, and tried not to think about the dreaded hour.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 4

The funeral went off without anyone accusing Molly of faking Sherlock's death, so she counted it as successful. Unfortunately, the effects of her cause were too realistic. She stood at a distance watching Mrs. Hudson and John cling to one another. Mrs. Hudson then left, leaving John to stare at the tombstone. She heard his plea.

"I need one more miracle, Sherlock. Don't be…dead."

It was almost her undoing. Molly collapsed on her knees. John rapidly approached her.

"Are you alright, Molly?"

"I'll-I'll be fine." She stood on shaky legs and willingly leaned into the embrace John offered. "Are you alright?"

"Someday, maybe, we'll all be ok."

Molly put her head in John's neck so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Want to get some tea or something?"

"Yes. I can't go back to Baker Street just yet."

Neither Molly nor John saw Sherlock standing yards from them. He wiped his suddenly damp eyes and began the journey back to Molly's flat.

"**Coffee's not bad**," John sipped from his cup as he and Molly sat in the coffee shop. Standing at Sherlock's grave, all he could think about was the empty flat he would be going home to. It scared him to think it wasn't home without the consulting detective. Nor did he particularly want to be alone, and Molly was clearly hurting just as much as he was. At least being close to someone else Sherlock considered part of his limited inner circle made John feel like Sherlock was still alive.

"It's decent, really," Molly alternately stared at the brown liquid and out the window. The grey sky cast death hues over the street scene, and she thought, _how appropriate_. After several minutes of quiet, she glanced up at John and found he had been watching her carefully.

"Molly, did he…say or do anything you thought suspect?"

No need to wonder whom John was referencing, and she didn't plead ignorance. She did, however, lie in keeping with Sherlock's wishes and John's own protection.

"No, well-I mean, Sherlock is-was-always about odd experiments or rants. But nothing the last time I saw him." She nearly choked on the words and took a couple unladylike gulps of the scalding coffee.

John mistook her actions for grief, and reached across the table to rest his hand on her arm. Molly tried to smile, and she put her free hand atop his.

"We'll be ok, won't we?" she said this more to herself than to him, but John heard and entangled their fingers in response. She stared down at the digits, fascinated by the tiny caresses against her skin.

"Molly, can I tell you something? I'm damn angry that he left me alone to face everything. I'll never understand nor accept his reasons for jumping off of that roof. I can't help but feel I've missed something. Might you have any idea what it is?" His eyes were intense, but his hands still gently held hers.

"John, I only know that I'm so sorry for the pain. It hurts so badly to lose someone you…"she stopped, afraid of saying too much, but knowing she had to get him off of his interrogation track. He was remarkably good at it.

"Love? That is what you were going to say, wasn't it?" He hung his head for a moment, and then looked up. Both of their eyes were shining with unshed tears. The moment was broken when John's phone buzzed. The conversation was brief.

"What is it?"

"I have to go. Lestrade has something for me to look at." He stood and put his coat on.

"A case?" Molly stood also and John moved behind her to help her with her coat.

"A lead, actually." His hands slid up her arms, guiding the coat by its shoulders. He let his hands linger on her slender frame a beat longer than he needed to.

Molly was quiet until they were outside. She faced him before they parted ways. "Don't pursue Moriarty's men, John. Please, they are dangerous."

"Do you really think I'm going to let this lie?"

She shook her head. Suddenly, John reached up to touch the tears she didn't realize had spilled from her eyes.

"Molly, I know Sherlock was the one you welcomed into your laboratory, but would it be alright if I popped in sometime?"

"Yes, of course, anytime." The smile she gave him now reached every part of her countenance. She felt so guilty for betraying him that anything she could do that was _not _a betrayal made her feel better. He nodded and then walked away. Molly brushed hard at the rogue tears and turned in the direction of St. Bart's. She needed to work; it would make her feel better.

**Molly came home** filled with apprehension. She didn't look forward to having to regale Sherlock with the story of his funeral. Nor did she want to tell him why she took nearly two hours to get home.

"Molly, where have you been?" Sherlock was up and next to her in a heartbeat.

"Work and then…" Sherlock moved behind Molly and took her coat from her, already tuning out her voice. He let the mud and dirt tell him where she'd been.

"Hmm," he said quietly as he draped the coat over a chair.

"What is it?"

"You took an exceptionally circuitous route to get back to the flat." He looked hard at Molly – more like through her – and startled at the conclusion he came to. "You were followed by someone?" he asked sharply.

"Three someones, actually. Two on foot and one in a car, I think. They were professionals, Sherlock."

He turned from her and began pacing. "Tell me what they were doing."

She surprised him by her observations. "They were trying not to be noticed. They rotated every two or three blocks." Molly put on the kettle for tea.

"How did you lose them?"

"I ducked in and out of a couple of shops and then left through the back door of one of them." She looked at him nervously. "Who are they? Why do they care about me?"

Sherlock felt a mixture of pride in her ability to keep it together enough to lose the tails and then anger at the man who was behind it.

Recognition dawned in her eyes before he spoke. "Moriarty. How can that be? You said you saw him dead."

"Did _you_ actually see him dead, Molly?" He hovered over her as she steeped the tea. "Did they bring you his body?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, I-My colleagues didn't bother me about any others after your 'body' came in." She handed him his cup and wrapped her hands around hers. She was suddenly chilled to the bone. "I need to sit down just now," she was already walking toward the couch.

Sherlock paced like a caged animal that afternoon and into the evening. He occasionally mumbled to himself, but continued to pace between the living area and the kitchen. At last, she moved from the couch to the kitchen and her movement snapped him out of his reverie.

"I saw you," his words were soft and measured, like the night he came to ask for her help in the lab.

She took his empty mug and put it in the sink next to hers. "Where?"

"At my gravestone," at this she nodded. Somehow she'd known he was there. "I saw John. Is he alright?" His voice was impossibly quieter at this last question.

Molly nodded slowly. "He's alright. We went for coffee" – Sherlock's eyebrows raised at this – "and had a chat. He's angry, Sherlock. He doesn't understand why, but he knows something isn't right. I think he's trying to find Moriarty's men."

"I wouldn't expect less," Sherlock had the barest hint of pride and worry in his voice.

"You should tell him you're alive. The funeral has come and gone and we've all made public spectacles of ourselves mourning over a man the UK press has billed a fraud."

"And what of the men who followed you, then? Have you considered they might be following John?" his sharp question silenced her. She tried to move around Sherlock, out of the kitchen, but he was standing in the doorway and would not move for her.

"You think I'm heartless."

Molly stared at him for a full minute before she replied. He was standing so close to her that she could smell her bath salts on him.

"No, Sherlock. I don't see that. What you did on that roof was sentiment – love – loud and true."

"I knew I wouldn't die; it was all a clever trick."

"Wrong again. Moriarty could have put a bullet in that thick skull of yours and your whole plan would have been for nothing. No, you were prepared to die to protect John, Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade. Your problem is not that you don't feel or understand sentiment. Your problem is that you have always relied on the partnership between your eyes and your brain to tell you all you need to know about the world. You just don't know how to trust your heart's interpretation of what your eyes see." Molly reached out her right hand and rested it gently against the steadily beating organ in Sherlock's chest.

He didn't know what to say. It was much easier to be callous than it was to care about people. But didn't he already care? As Molly pointed out, his performance on the roof could easily have gotten him killed. And he had reconciled with that possibility, as long as the others could carry on. Perhaps he could, and did, love in his own way. But here was Molly, her warm hand a gentle pressure against his heart. She was enamored with him, he knew. And, obviously, he exploited it. How else could he get into the morgue at odd hours for odd reasons? She had said so many things about _feelings_, damn them all, but mostly his and John's.

John, who following without question and marveled unapologetically at Sherlock's deductive observations. A man who brought a harem round their flat just to prove…prove what? Prove Sherlock meant nothing to him romantically? Why did John feel the need to do that? _Could Molly be right?_

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath at this thought startled Molly and she drew back her hand. "I'm sorry…I always talk too much." Molly mumbled and quickly made her escape from the kitchen. Sherlock followed her to her bedroom, not more than three steps behind.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 5

"Sherlock," she said this on a sigh. "I am going to have a bath, and I'd like privacy, please."

Instead of leaving, Sherlock went to her reading chair and sat down. "I do understand sentiment. It just doesn't serve my work to be embroiled in the drama feelings inevitably bring." He thought this was quite reasonably a revelation, but Molly just stood with her hands on her hips. He pressed on. "I admit I've never experienced being 'in love' as it were, except for a very brief experiment at university. I don't understand why both John and you are hell-bent on my welfare, but I do know that when I'm close to you, my mind stops going in circles."

She shook her head. "Sherlock, you've been moody and you've spent hours in your own head since you got here."

He let out an exasperated breath. "No, no, no. I mean at night. I mean, I come in this room and sit right here" – he lightly smacked the chair's arms – "and watch you sleep and I don't understand it but watching you makes me feel better." His face was as open as she had ever seen it, as if it were possible for Sherlock to be vulnerable.

Now he did surprise her. She dropped her hands from her waist and leaned against her dresser. _He watched me sleep? Oh God, do I snore? Do I sleep with my mouth hanging open? How much does he know about the awful nightmares?_

"You are so transparent," Sherlock said, still seated, but watching her now with guarded eyes. "You don't snore, and you don't have the nightmares as much as you think." Sometimes people were so predictable, always distracted by their insecurities.

"You, you sleep here with me?"

"I do not sleep. I watch you and listen to you breathe and I get tired enough to sleep, then I go to my bed."

"Oh." Molly was torn between being amazed by this man who constantly did things to make her crazy and throwing him out for being so selfish as to take from her even when she was unconsciously giving to him. Finally, she settled on a course of action. "Sherlock, I'm going to have a bath. Stay in this room, or don't, whatever you please. But when I come out, we are going to bed. No," she held up her hand before his perfect mouth could form his objections, "not that way. If you want us both to be in the same room tonight we are both going to get something out of it, damn it."

She was proud of herself as she dramatically slammed the bath door, then leaned against it, her heart hammering in her chest. The Molly who had asserted herself just now was a completely foreign creature to her.

Still in Molly's bedroom, Sherlock's eyebrows raised and he smiled when she slammed the door shut. _Molly, Molly, Molly. You have no idea what you're asking for._

**An hour later**, Molly came out of the bath, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and her hair still in the ponytail she'd put it in before she eased into the hot bathwater. Sherlock had left, and she walked over to her window. She opened the window, feeling the chill of the night air against her skin. Remembering a yoga breathing trick, she began counting her inhalations and exhalations until she felt the tension of the last few days leave her. This whole week seemed surreal, and with everyone constantly around her, she hadn't felt the pleasant tingles of relaxation she felt now.

"You know breathing like that can hyperventilate you."

Molly winced and put her freshly-washed face against the cool glass. She knew the solitude was too good to last, but she couldn't say she was sorry to see Sherlock as new kinds of tingles quickly presented themselves in her belly. When she turned to look at him, he was already tucked under the blankets. She decided to leave the window open a little; after all the cool air would do her good since she would swear the temperature went up 20 degrees when the toned consulting detective crossed the room.

Molly walked around the bed on shaky legs. Why should she be nervous? After all, Sherlock had already seen her sleeping. This is just a payback of sorts for her, a way to get even and make him as uncomfortable as he had made her with his little revelation.

So why did those hooded eyes of his make her insides jelly? She shook her head, trying to ignore the shakiness in her legs and the pounding of her heart. She concentrated on pulling the blankets back and getting in on her side in a way she hoped looked graceful and elegant. When she was settled on her back, covers tucked up to her chin, she looked over at Sherlock, not sure what to expect.

He just watched her with amusement in his features.

"What?" the question came out an octave higher and squeakier than she had intended.

"This isn't at all like me sitting in the chair watching you sleep. You're all nervous energy and I can hear your thoughts from here. It's not relaxing in the least." He actually looked like he might pout.

Now it was Molly's turn to be amused. "Sherlock, you are absolutely incorrigible. This is for _me_, you jerk." He gave her his patented surprised look, and emboldened, she turned on her side so she was facing him. "You watch me sleeping and I don't even get the benefit of knowing you're in the same room with me. This," she gestured in between them now, "is so that _I_ can be comforted, _my_ thoughts can still, _my _nightmares can stop, and _my_ heart can maybe stop breaking every time I look at you." She hadn't meant to say this last bit, and as the words tumbled out she knew she would regret them.

Sherlock's eyes searched Molly's face, so beautiful in the waxing moonlight. He knew sentiment was an inconvenience, but the past couple of days had him thinking that perhaps it could do more than annoy him: it could hurt him. He couldn't explain otherwise the profound sadness that washed over him at Molly's words. He brought his hand up to caress her cheek. Molly closed her eyes on a sigh and leaned in to his touch. No one had ever wanted him close like this, except her.

And John.

Sherlock withdrew his hand and waited for her to open her eyes. When she did, he said, "I don't know how to be what you and John seem to want. I can't feel anything but badly about the way I've treated you both the past week, even though" he quickly added, "it's for everybody's good. Tell me how I'm supposed to feel about lying next to you, thinking about kissing you and thinking about John alone in our flat."

Molly swallowed thickly. It took a moment for his whole sentence to sink in, past the "kissing you" part. She chose her words carefully. "You do what the rest of us insipid humans do: you choose what feels good and hope you don't live to regret it."

Sherlock was sure Molly meant that as a jab, a challenge, and a bad piece of advice all rolled into one. Damn it all, though, he _did_ want to feel good, he did want to stop the incessant racing in his mind and his heart that she seemed to bring out of him. He made his decision, then. His intense eyes refocused on her, and he felt rather than saw her shrink back a little. _Good_, he thought. _The little mouse should fear me._ He leaned in close to her, invading her space, making her feel his presence.

"Molly, you have no idea how insufferable I can be. You have no idea how possessive I am about the things that belong to me," his intense eyes stared into hers. He had to make her understand. "If you think you can just start this and walk away if you don't like it, it won't work that way."

Molly didn't know what to say, but she knew she was very turned on. She searched his angular face for something familiar: a tight smile, a triumphant look. Instead, she saw a man who looked at her as if she were the last meal on earth and he were starving. Sherlock looked fairly predatory to her, and when he cupped the back of her neck, keeping her in place for his kiss, she trembled so hard she was worried he would stop.

Molly need not have worried that Sherlock would stop; her sudden uncertainty brought out desires Sherlock had long put in the basement of his Mind Palace. In his mind's eye, flashes of memories came to his consciousness: a guiding hand, a muscular back, a taut stomach, his pale skin against Kip's, their chests touching for the first time, lips meeting and tongues tangling, an ice cube followed by the heat of Kip's mouth on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's kiss was not tentative; he angled Molly's jaw and swiftly met her lips with his. He gentled only slightly when it occurred to him that he did not want to bruise her lips – that would invite questions – only maybe scare her into realizing he was not the type to just play house whenever she felt like it. He coaxed her lips apart, her whimpers an encouraging backdrop to his tongue playing roughly against hers.

"Sherlock, I need to breathe," Molly turned her head and broke their kiss, bringing him back to the present. His ever-observant eyes took in her dilated eyes, her flushed skin, and her erratic breathing. At once, Sherlock's instincts kicked in – the ones Kip had awoken in him – and he knew he would have Molly moaning with joy before they fell asleep. But only if he were more careful. He wryly smiled at his own obvious observations. Molly was not a man, and she would not appreciate the roughness he knew Kip liked. John, on the other hand…

Sherlock groaned, putting his head in Molly's neck. Her arms went around him, holding him tightly to her. The emotions flowing through her were overwhelming and she clung to him because he was all that was anchoring her to reality.

His hands moved under her t-shirt, and she moaned at the contact. His hands were so hot on her already hyper-sensitive skin. Molly sat up to get the shirt off of her, but Sherlock sat up too and stilled her hands with his own. She looked at him with the question on her face.

"Let me, Molly. I need this."

She nodded, and he moved quickly then, taking his shirt off. She barely had time to register the toned flesh and then he was yanking her t-shirt over her head. Moving closer, Sherlock drew his fingers lightly up Molly's arms, then across her collarbone, and then he cupped her breasts.

"You are all heart, Molly Hooper," Sherlock moved his mouth across her freshly washed skin. "And so beautiful." He licked at and then closed his mouth around one taut peak. Molly's hands were immediately in his hair, trying to pull him closer.

Sherlock pushed her back so that he lay on top of her. She trembled and clutched to him. "Sherlock, please, please," she did not even know for what she begged.

He only smiled that enigmatic smile of his and then took her breath away with another deep and lingering kiss. He would never have thought he could be so gentle with someone. He looked at Molly laying beneath him, as open and trusting as she had always been. The colors of night looked beautiful on her.

Sherlock did not realize he had voiced this until she blushed and looked away. But he would not let her shrink from him, ever again, and drew her face back to him with his fingers on her chin.

Molly had no intention of shrinking from him. She flipped them both with sudden purpose, straddling Sherlock's hips.

"I've watched you for hours in the lab," she circled his nipples with her fingers and felt the gooseflesh raise beneath the digits. "I've wondered what your skin tasted like; if you would kiss with reservation or abandon. Now I know," she bent her head and suckled his nipple.

"Molly," his voice was gripped with a strangled control.

Her tongue charted a path down his chest, pausing to dance around his belly button, and stopped at the edge of his pajama bottoms. She could see he was aroused, the tent of his trousers obvious and impressive. Molly glanced at Sherlock then, and was met with his dark gaze watching her intently.

"Go on then," he said, but his voice was choked and husky. It had been so long since anyone had touched him. Molly gripped both sides of his pajama bottoms and pulled the trousers down and off of him.

"Molly, Molly," he whispered as he reached for her again. When she was again in his arms, he rolled them gently so she was beneath him. She shuddered and closed her eyes, determined to remember this moment for the rest of her life.

Sherlock shook his head and then kissed her. He knew the second he touched her that this would not be a one-off thing. Molly sighed into the kiss, their tongues dueling, stoking her desire for him.

"I have to have you, Molly," he whispered against her mouth. She moaned in response to his words.

**A while later**, exhaustion took hold as Sherlock settled himself against Molly. Sherlock threw an arm around her waist and snuggled into her space. She snuggled back and squeezed his arm.

"Stay here with me, Molly," he mumbled against her skin.

Molly's last thought before sleep claimed her was, _Go figure, this is my bed_.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight - Chapter 6

Molly snuggled closer to the warm body pressed against her back. Thinking about the things she had said and done with that warm body last night made her blush. Sherlock Holmes made love like he did everything else: with unmatched intensity, focus, and passion. She realized as she watched the first hints of morning through the blinds that she hadn't a clue what to expect from him now. He was the stalwart of her lab; his influence evident even when he wasn't physically there in the experiment he let sit for days. He always took his coffee the same way; always flattered her when he needed something. What will it be like now?

Sherlock mumbled and tightened his arms around Molly. She smiled, relishing this feeling of warmth and safety. If she knew one thing about life, it was that these feelings were never without a price, but she would pay it later.

Inevitably, the heartbreak would come.

But not today. Today she could close her eyes and just feel Sherlock's steady breathing, the way his arm rested pleasantly around her waist, and how his fingers played along her stomach as if he were playing his violin. After a while, Molly tried to slip away to the loo, but as she moved away from him, Sherlock tightened his hold.

In a sleep-muffled voice, he said, "No, John, don't go yet. You're warm."

Molly froze. Oh, here it comes, the heartbreak. He was dreaming, perhaps wishing it were John Watson next to him. Not loyal, sweet Molly.

But instead of sadness, Molly felt relieved. Relieved because Sherlock had finally given voice to what she had suspected about those two all along. They were in love with one another, though neither wanted to admit to it. But where did that leave Molly? She had loved Sherlock for so long, and there had been no denying he was attracted to her, if last night was anything to go by. But in the morning light, it was John whom Sherlock loved.

Molly turned in his arms to face him, and the movement caused Sherlock to let go of the last vestiges of sleep. His eyes popped open and were instantly appraising her. She watched the quick confusion, the eyebrows raise in remembrance, and the smirk of satisfaction cross his face. She reached up to touch that beautiful face, expecting him to pull away. Instead, he leaned into her hand.

"Molly," her name on his lips made her stomach flip-flop.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Was this what you wanted?" There was no trace of sarcasm or rudeness. Just curiosity.

Instead of answering, Molly pushed herself up, leaned on her elbow, and kissed Sherlock. His hand entangled in her hair immediately, drawing her into the kiss at a deeper angle. He coaxed her mouth open and gently sucked her tongue. Molly moaned and gripped his shoulder tighter.

Before she could process what was happening, she was beneath Sherlock, looking up at him, and he was holding himself at her ready entrance.

"May I?" he grinned.

"Oh, gosh, yes," came her throaty response. He wasted no time, thrusting into her and bringing them both the pleasure they sought.

**Several days later**, Molly tried to busy herself with a bout of cleaning the lab equipment. She stilled her vigorous scrub of a small square of table as she noticed John Watson had stopped talking. He had stopped by – "out on an errand" he said – to see her.

He was watching her with those eyes that said he knew she was avoiding something. Molly tried not to think of the last few nights with Sherlock, or the morning he murmured John's name as he struggled to hold onto sleep. Despite herself, she flushed with color and went back to disinfecting.

"You know," John said matter-of-factly, still standing halfway across the lab. "You can tell me what's got you so on edge. I shall be glad to listen."

Molly did look up then. How could she keep lying to him? How could she watch him trying to be a good friend knowing that Sherlock was still alive? _Well,_ she shook herself, _you'd better. If Sherlock doesn't kill you, John surely will._

"I'm alright. Maybe just a bit tired. I haven't slept well since…since…" she didn't know how to finish that sentence. Since Sherlock faked his death? Since Sherlock made love to her like a starving man getting his hands on food?

No, definitely not telling John Watson _that_.

John nodded once, a curt nod which suited the suddenly pained look on his face. Molly regretted bringing up Sherlock's jump, but before she could speak, he averted his eyes. She sighed and said, "How goes work? Any new cases?" She was scrubbing again.

Molly didn't notice John's movements until she felt his hand on her shoulders. With a deep breath, she stood up straight. But John didn't move back; instead, he moved until his front was flush with her back.

"John?" Molly's voice was small in the still lab.

"I'm sorry, I just needed to touch you," he breathed into her left ear, his hands still resting on her shoulders. She felt and heard him take a deep breath, her feminine scent strong in his proximity to her. Any yet, beyond that was a deeper fragrance, one which he never thought he would smell again.

Sherlock. Oh, when would it end? When would he stop hearing his noises, seeing his shadow, smelling his aftershave? John tried to stifle the sob that suddenly tore from his chest.

At the sound, Molly turned around and before she knew it, she was ensconced in John's strong arms. "I'm sorry," his voice muffled against her shoulder. "But for a moment, I smelled him right here in this room."

Molly couldn't speak; she rocked with John until he pulled back. As they looked at one another, the air changed. John's face, always so pleasant and inviting, was suddenly very close to Molly's. His hands left her shoulders, found themselves on either side of her face. He said nothing, only took in the softness of her skin and the contours of her body against his. Some part of him dimly recognized that Molly had never been so attractive to him until Sherlock died.

John's lips against hers were feather light, hesitant touches. Molly couldn't help but think of how different this was from Sherlock's kisses. He was demanding, insistent, and not very concerned with her need to breathe.

As she had always known, Sherlock would devour.

Not John. He seemed in no hurry to rush the moment, although, now that he knew Molly would not pull away, he firmly pressed his mouth against hers.

Molly's body was beginning to warm up to Dr. Watson's male attentions. Her hands held fistfuls of his shirt, and she opened her mouth to John when she felt his tongue begging entrance. John groaned into Molly's willing mouth as his hand found her left breast through her blouse. He could feel the heat between them, culminating where their pelvises were pressed together. Faintly, he smelled Sherlock again and his arousal was complete. He knew Molly could feel him. But instead of reaching for him, she broke the kiss and attempted a few millimeters of space between them. But she had kissed him back, hadn't she? John tried to hide his disappointment when he met her eyes.

She didn't look unhappy. Her cheeks were high with a natural blush and her lips were swollen and still parted. She smiled at him and tried to straighten his shirt.

"John, we can't snog in my laboratory. If someone were to walk in…"

He held up a hand. "It's ok, Molly. What are you doing this evening?" At her look of hesitation, he quickly added, "Dinner. I would like to take you to dinner."

Molly smiled again. She would rather have dinner Irene Adler-style, but decided that getting John out of the apartment for a couple of hours could only help him. As she heard herself saying yes and finalizing plans, she wondered what she was going to do about Sherlock.

He would pout and be cross, but it was his own fault. Maybe Sherlock would begin to understand her position in all of this if she made it slightly inconvenient for him. Maybe John would know Sherlock was alive by the end of the night. Molly knew Sherlock could not continue to take on Moriarty on his own, no matter how much he wanted to.

As John walked out of her lab, Molly made another decision: she would not use the doctor showers before making for her apartment. Let Sherlock smell John on her. Maybe it will push him a little.

She just hoped it wouldn't push him away.

**By the time** Molly was standing outside of her apartment door, she was beginning to regret not showering, rinsing off at least. She knew Sherlock harbored some interest in John; after all, she had been there when he spoke John's name in sleep. She also knew that those two would never admit their feelings if they weren't driven to it. Molly resigned herself to being the catalyst, and she hoped that by the time all was said and done, all three of them would be alive to enjoy each other.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight - Chapter 7

Watson hated coming home now. He hated the silence that greeted him. Everywhere around him were reminders of Sherlock, but he could not bring himself to pack any of those things away. Mrs. Hudson had done a thorough cleaning – her "way of coping with grief, dear" – and thus all of Sherlock's experiments were compromised and binned. Mycroft came by once intending to remove some of his brother's belongings, but John had gone mad with despair at losing what he had left of Sherlock. Mycroft had not been back since.

John sat in his chair by the fireplace now, the heat coming from the embers warming the room. These days, his contemplations always revolved around Sherlock. Even his initial attraction to Molly had been because he smelled Sherlock – or, thought he did. When he stood close to her in the lab at St. Bart's, intending to bring her comfort, he was overwhelmed by his own need to be solaced. Kissing her had been an impulse; although, he conceded to himself, not an altogether unpleasant one. John had always enjoyed the company of women, had always been a bit of a player, and he knew in Molly's response that she was not put off by the idea of his attraction to her.

But always the big elephant in the room would be Sherlock. John had never been attracted to a man before. He considered now the first time he met Sherlock. He remembered the sparks of energy that he imagined flitted between them in those first few moments. John put his head in his hands. If he had known that he would only get this short while with Sherlock, he would have…what? John would not even know where to begin in dealing with Sherlock on an emotional level. Beyond the intense physical attraction, Sherlock was insufferable but he was intensely loyal to his friends. He was unsophisticated in the most basic of ways, yet he had a relationship with music that rivaled Sebastian Bach. Sherlock could be bull-headed and utterly callous, but he could also be tame and charming when he needed to be.

John sighed. Thinking like this was not going to help him have a good time tonight. And, he chided himself, both he and Molly needed to have an evening out of their respective cloisters. He would not be the proverbial wet blanket. Molly carried an emotional burden just as he did; he could see it in the way she behaved today. They both needed to exercise some Sherlockian demons, and maybe have a laugh while they were at it.

All of a sudden, John knew where he wanted to take Molly tonight. He jumped up to shower, shave, and dress for the evening.

**Molly's flat was **suspiciously silent when she opened the door. She nervously looked around, hoping to just dodge into the bath without meeting Sherlock first. She need not have worried. Toby came out, immediately circling her legs. Leaning down, Molly scratched the cat under her chin and felt her purr. Over the last week, Toby had grown fond of Sherlock and most of the time the little traitor would not greet her at the door when she walked in.

Sherlock was not here. That was the only conclusion Molly could come to. At first, she felt disappointment, but as Molly stepped under the hot water spray of the shower, she began to feel terrified. What if Sherlock had gone out on a Moriarty-related mission? What if he was hurt, or worse?

Molly took the worry off of her countenance as much as she could with her make-up, but she could do nothing about the expression in her eyes. She had no idea what John had planned for their date, but she wore a yellow sweater and a knee-length skirt with daises on it. She contemplated high heels or sandals, but finally decided on white, slip on Sketchers. Heels were never her thing, anyway. Molly left her hair down, curled slightly to give it more body.

She checked her reflection one final time as she saw John's cab pull up out front.

"…**so Mrs. Hudson **must have broken the jar without realizing what Sherlock had inside it because I hear her shrieking clear down the hall!" John told the story with much more flourish than necessary, but he had to embellish the funny bits or he would be crying at the memory.

Molly's smile died away as she watched John withdraw into the memory. She looked down and played with the remnants of her salad, not hungry anymore. Looking up and away from him, she glanced around the small café, filled at the moment with other couples and a family or two, enjoying the candlelight and soft music playing unobtrusively in the background.

"Molly?" John wanted to enjoy being with Molly; he reaffirmed his earlier agreement with himself and decided to forge ahead with his plan for the evening.

"Yes, John," she looked at him fully, her expression open and engaged.

"Will you take a walk with me? I want to share something with you."

"Yes, John."

He threw several twenty pound notes on the table, stood up, and grabbed Molly's hand. Their fingers intertwined without conscious thought from either of them. They walked out of the café, and headed away from the direction they had come.

Molly felt the chill of the night air and pulled her jacket tighter around her with her free hand. John noticed, and letting his hand drop hers, he brought that arm around her shoulders. Molly let him draw her closer to him, taking comfort in his body heat and his maleness. Where Sherlock was strength and cool aloofness, John was strength and warmth. It was not lost on Molly that she needed both men precisely for how different and similar they were. She wanted very much to get Sherlock and John to a place where they would accept one another for those wonderful qualities, but doubted she would be in the picture too long after they realized how much they suited one another.

Even though they both suited her just fine.

John's grip on her shoulder stopped Molly's inner monologue, and she looked up at his face expectantly. He met her eyes briefly, and then looked over her left shoulder. Molly looked too, and realized she stood in front of St. Bart's.

The building stood lonely, and if not for the lights shining through the windows, it would look empty and desolate.

Molly turned to John, and his arm fell to his side. "John, I don't understand. Why are we here?"

"Because I need to understand. The day Sherlock died is still hazy to me. I was cold-cocked or something, but I remember standing here and looking up at the roof line, hearing Sherlock's voice on the phone. I remember the sorrow in his voice and the terror in my head."

Molly was afraid to have this conversation with John. She was afraid it would turn into a confrontation in which John would accuse her of keeping Sherlock's secret. Most of all, she was afraid because she _wanted_ to tell him, wanted to ease his pain and stop his torment.

"John, Sherlock made the only decision he could make at the time." That part was true, anyway. "Beating yourself up day after day is not going to change any of it. There wasn't anything you _could_ do."

"I should have taken his place!" John's voice cut through the stillness and quiet around them. Well, so much for a jolly good time.

Molly sucked in a breath; her temper kindled at this. "Why, so I could lose two men important to me? John, you know if it had been you, it would have destroyed Sherlock and he would still have jumped the first chance Moriarty gave him."

John could not argue this. He really looked at Molly then, and saw the tears waiting to fall in her eyes. He brought his hand to her face, cradling her cheek, his touch staying gentle so he didn't scare her.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I just miss him, and it scares the hell out of me. I sometimes swear I hear his footsteps in the hallway. I see his face in the faces of people on the street, and I can't stop." John shook his head and looked up at the moon. "I can't go on like…like…"

Molly felt him tense a second before his voice faltered. "John?" His face had gone deathly white and he now gripped her upper arms in a vice. Thus far, his emotional outbursts were expected and nothing Molly had not seen before as a normal consequence of grief. Now, though, he looked like he had seen a ghost and it frightened her. "John?" She said loudly, more forcefully.

"Take me up to the roof," his voice was not a question and his eyes were hard when they focused on her again. He no longer looked sad, he looked furious.

"I really don't think that's a good idea. Let's go back to my…"

"Now, Molly." He grabbed her hand as he had earlier, only this time his grip hurt. She stumbled after him, wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 8

John didn't saya word to Molly as she guided him through the silent halls, up the lift, and finally up a set of stairs to the roof. This was the route she had given to Sherlock, and she had no desire to be up on the roof with John now. His unpredictable temperament this evening scared her, and for all she knew she would see a real death-by-jumping before the night was over.

John knew Molly was alarmed, but she did as he asked and took him to the roof. He did not want to tell her he was seeing things, but he could have sworn he saw Sherlock looking down at them while he and Molly stood on the cobblestones below. The air was even chillier now. The wind was beginning to gust, bringing rainclouds with it that covered the light of the moon. It also impaired his ability to see into the shadows.

John looked around frantically for Sherlock's recognizable form. He _knew_ he had seen him; it could not have been his imagination. He began walking toward any obstacles that could hide a man of Sherlock's size. After ten minutes of this, he suddenly remembered Molly. His eyes sought her form out. She stood close to the stairwell door, and John was unsure if this was because she was worried she would need a quick exit or because she wanted to be able to shout for help quickly.

Perhaps a little of both, he thought ruefully. So much for a night out. _She must think I am a cad of the first order._ He allowed a lilted, hesitant smile to come to his face as he made his way back toward Molly. The first raindrops began to fall, and he would never forgive himself if she ended up with pneumonia because of his hallucinations.

The now-steady rainfall could not hide the tear tracks on Molly's face. She openly sobbed as he reached for her.

"Oh, Molly, baby, I'm sorry," he crushed her to him. The wind seemed to get angrier by the second and her body trembled now. "I thought I saw him. What the hell is wrong with me?"

Molly pulled back to look at John. She had to tell him Sherlock was alive. This was all too much, and she could not allow John to lose his grip on sanity, fragile though it was at the moment.

"John, I need to tell you something."

"Later, love. You're soaked and you need to get dried off before you end up sick. Come on, let's get back inside. You have scrubs in your locker don't you?" He tried to turn her to the door, but she stood firm.

"No, John, wait. You need to know."

"Know what?" His voice hardened again, but his eyes pleaded with her to be kind to him.

"I can't go on like this any longer. It's killing you and it's killing him. I won't watch your lives fall apart when I can do something to put them back together."

"What are you talking about?"

"John, Sherlock asked me to keep a secret for him. But the time for that secret is passed, and you need to know before I have to watch you die, too."

John shook his head, trying to understand where Molly was going with this. She was crying and the rain was pouring around them.

"Sherlock is alive," she fairly shouted to be heard against the backdrop of Mother Nature.

John gripped her upper arms again. "What did you say?"

Sobbing anew, she repeated, "Sherlock is alive." Molly closed her eyes against the confusion and anguish that crossed John's features. He let her go and she fell forward, not realizing she was leaning on him for the strength to tell him the truth. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Molly just sat there, keeping her head down, trying to not hyperventilate herself.

"No, it can't be," John backed away from her. He looked around the rooftop again, but all he saw was empty shadows. He turned back to her, angry now. "Get up," he coldly commanded.

Molly knew she deserved his rage for having lied to him all this time, but she couldn't stop the trembling in her body as she rose to her feet. She felt his finger on her chin, nudging her eyes up to meet his.

"Why?" John measured his tone and his words. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

"I…"

"Why did you not tell me before I thought about putting a bullet in my brain?" John gripped Molly's arms again. He knew she would bruise, but he was past caring. "Why didn't you tell me when I barricaded myself in our flat with his things? When I damn near threw myself in his grave after his coffin? Why, Molly?" He shook her roughly, but Molly just stared into his eyes, her own wide and frightened but willing to take whatever he needed to give her.

"John."

The smooth baritone cut through the rain, cut through Molly's muted sniffles, and cut through John's tirade. He daren't let Molly go as he turned toward the source of the voice.

All he could manage was a whisper, a question, a prayer, and a praise, all encapsulated into one word.

"Sherlock?"

Molly was so focused on John's eyes that it took her a beat to figure out Sherlock was now with them on the roof. Her brain skipped past the "why" question and jumped straight to the "what now?" question. She could see by the look on John's face that a quick man-hug and a pint were not going to be part of Sherlock's homecoming.

John let Molly go abruptly, and turned his whole body to face the man who had seemingly risen from the dead.

"It can't be, it can't be," he muttered to himself. The rain was only a drizzle now, but all three figures were soaked, and John felt the wet squish inside his loafers as he approached Sherlock.

Sherlock stood eerily still, wanting to reassure John that he was not an apparition or hallucination. He glanced at Molly, who now leaned against the stairwell door again. She met his eyes briefly, conveying her apology and her adoration all at once.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in acknowledgement of her message. He needed to speed things up with John; Molly was trembling and he wanted to get her inside.

"I wasn't just seeing things," John stood two feet from Sherlock, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest.

"No, I'm here."

"But I watched you jump. I watched you die."

"No, you didn't. If you had, I wouldn't have been able to pull it off. Molly's good, but she is no army surgeon."

John whirled around to Molly as Sherlock implicated her in his scheme. He knew she had to have been involved to know he was alive, but to actively help perpetuate Sherlock's lie? She grimaced and situated herself more firmly against the door. She wished she could disappear into the wood; the accusation of betrayal written on John's face made her want to sob anew. She didn't, just returned his gaze evenly. After all, she would have done the same for him if he needed her help.

"You should know she begged me every day to tell you," Sherlock said. He reached out to touch John's shoulder, felt the muscles tense beneath his hands.

John looked at the appendage and then shrugged it off. Somewhere, his rational mind warned him he was being childish, but the child wasn't ready to give up the fight yet. John was torn between wanting to throw himself in his friend's arms and punching the living daylights out of him.

He opted for the gut shot, in the end. He couldn't help the words that escaped his mouth.

"How many laughs did you both have at my expense?"

"None," Sherlock held himself straighter, ready for the anger.

"Why didn't you trust me with your secret, too? Or am I not the easy-to-manipulate piece of ass that Molly is?"

Sherlock did not even think. He heard Molly's gasp a second before he threw himself at Watson in a full on tackle. John landed fast and hard on the rough concrete. He did not even try to defend himself, only swung blindly at Sherlock, who easily dodged his punches. Sherlock finally grabbed the flailing limbs and tried to get John to look at him. All Sherlock had wanted to do was re-examine Moriarty's last minutes…how had things gotten so out of control?

Molly did not see this scenario ending well. She had been shocked by John's outburst, but this wrestling match would not get them anywhere. She moved quickly to the men and put her hands on Sherlock's shoulders. She kneeled beside him, looking from one handsome face to the other.

"We need to stop this," she said gently. "It's past midnight and freezing cold in our wet clothes. You two will be duking this out in the sick ward downstairs if we stay out here much longer. Please."

Sherlock nodded and slowly released John. He arose and offered John a hand, which the prostrate man accepted after a moment. As John got his feet under him, he looked up at Sherlock who was suddenly very close to him.

Sherlock's blue eyes, sharp as ever, drew the doctor in closer. He felt the icy grip of his friend's hand, holding it a moment longer before he stepped away. After sharing a meaningful look, both men looked to Molly.

She was trembling again, from the emotions coursing through her or the cold, she couldn't say. The men moved to either side of her wordlessly, and they walked the thirty feet or so back to the stairwell. _How fitting,_ she thought, _that it should begin again where it ended._

But Sherlock and John remained silent, just sandwiching Molly in between them while they descended the stairs, stood in the lift, walked through the lobby, and even when they sat in the cab.

No one broke the silence.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 9

**221B Baker Street.** Sherlock did not imagine he would be back in the flat so soon. He looked around carefully, categorizing the changes and running his fingers over various and sundry, making sure it was all still real.

_Mrs. Hudson threw away my experiments. Someone moved my chair. Hey…who the hell touched my skull?!_ He picked up the disrespected skull and glared at John, but John was too busy kindling a fire to notice. Sherlock glanced at Molly, who still stood in the foyer, as if wondering if she should stay or go. Sherlock wanted her to stay, but he was unsure of how to ask it, so he said nothing, only continued his inspection of the premises.

John was aware of Sherlock's examination. He stood up after the fire had been properly built, drinking in the sight of Sherlock in the flat once again. His attention was drawn to Molly at her slight sneeze. She still shivered, although not as visibly.

John walked over to her, gently ran his hands up and down her arms. His expression was somber, hers was filled with apprehension. _Does she think I'm blaming her? _ It would be a reasonable assumption, given his mad-man episode on St. Bart's roof.

"John…" she whispered, ready to apologize for the thousandth time since this whole thing started.

"No, Molly," he said just as quietly. "Please don't. I'm the one who should be sorry. And I am. I treated you unforgivably rough. That's not me, not really, ok?" He searched her eyes.

"It's alright, I understand. I – we – never meant to hurt you. You don't know how often I wanted to blurt it all out."

"Come closer to the fire and get warm," he slid his hands down her arms until their fingers were entwined. "Come on," he pulled her to the hearth.

Sherlock looked up from his inspection of the kitchen table, watching the only two people in the world who he trusted. In many ways, Sherlock wished he could be more like John: he made Molly smile slightly now. Whatever he said caused a blush to rise in her cheeks and she looked down, biting her lip.

Sherlock knew what those lips felt like, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal hit him. He watched John bring Molly's hands to his lips, brushing those lips across her knuckles. He wasn't entirely surprised; after all, John was remarkably good with the fairer sex. Molly was no different. But now Sherlock wondered what John's lips would feel like against his. The thought should have surprised him; it did not. He knew he wanted John when the man was beneath him on the rooftop. No, he knew he wanted John before that; perhaps even before Molly knew Sherlock wanted John. Now, he only wondered if John felt the same way.

Molly searched him out, looking for Sherlock's familiar form in the flat. When they fell upon his form, still and eyes taking in everything, she willed him to understand. Her eyes held an unmistakable invitation: come over here and make things right before you lose him. All at once, Sherlock felt conflicted. If he "made things right" with John, what would happen with he and Molly? Sherlock did not want to deny his desires for the army doctor, but nor did he like the idea of never holding or touching the young pathologist again.

Snapping himself out of his thoughts, Sherlock closed the distance between he and the pair by the hearth. Molly still stood holding John's hands, her soft eyes reflecting the sparks from the fire. Sherlock stepped behind John and tried again to put his hand on the shorter man's shoulder.

This time, John did not shake him off. He only closed his eyes and allowed himself the moment to bask in the touch. Molly did not move, her eyes alternating between the unsure Holmes and the hurt Dr. Watson. After some moments, John opened his eyes. They were clear and bright when they focused on Molly. He seemed to have made a decision.

"Will you put on some tea, love?" he softly requested.

Glad to have a distraction, Molly nodded. As she started to step away, John put a gentle hand around her neck, leaned into her, and kissed her. His kiss was gentle and undemanding, but made Molly weak in the knees anyway. She could not imagine a more arousing scene: John kissing her softly in front of a beautiful fire while Sherlock stands watching…perhaps waiting to join in…

She pulled back from John at that thought, and looked up at Sherlock. She knew how she felt about all this, but she had no idea if he would be disgusted by the idea of them sharing her and enjoying one another. She took a deep breath as she read the fire of arousal in his eyes. She had her answer from him, anyway. She swallowed thickly, looked at John, and walked into the small kitchen to give the men an illusion of privacy.

Molly opened cabinets, gathered kettle, cups, tea, and water. All the while, she considered the events of the evening. This is what she had wanted from the first: Sherlock and John to awaken to how they felt about one another. But things between them were just as strained as ever, worse than they had ever been. And, she reminded herself ruefully, if they discover one another, they might not want her around any longer.

Molly watched the kettle for some long minutes until she dared to satisfy her own curiosity. She looked over to the two men standing in front of the fire.

**Sherlock stared into** John's eyes. He was not going to blink first.

John watched him wearily, just as determined to not look away. He had been so keyed up on adrenaline, but facing Sherlock now, all he wanted was for things to be as they had been just a short month earlier. He had a hundred questions; a thousand things he wanted to say. Somehow, staring into those brilliantly bright eyes of Sherlock's, John could not remember a single one of them.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, John relented. "Look, Sherlock…"

Sherlock's eyes immediately refocused on John as the doctor shifted weight from one foot to the other. John did not look at all sure of what he wanted to say. Perhaps he just wanted to break the interminable silence. If there was one thing Sherlock detested, it was chatter for the sake of chatter. He never engaged in it, and never expected his closest friends to.

"There is no need for semantics, John. I am here, quite real, quite alive, but needing to be quite dead for a bit longer. I know my decision was not" – he cast a long look at Molly who was busy putting together a tea tray – "a popular one, but it was a necessary one. I do hope you understand. If not, well, what is to be done now?" Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back, his spine straight, and he watched John in that insufferable way he had when he expected an emotional tirade from someone.

John pursed his lips together as he listened to Sherlock speak. It would be just like the man to oversimplify the situation and dismiss any – heaven forbid – _feelings_ that came with said oversimplified situation. He shook his head at his friend. John's brain was just beginning to reconcile that Sherlock Holmes was not dead and was indeed standing in front of him. With a start, John realized he and Sherlock would not be successful communicating their feelings to one another. At least, not without a little help. He smiled as he heard the tentative footsteps of their pathologist draw closer. If they could not relate directly _to_ one another, then perhaps they should relate _through_ one Molly Hooper.

Molly heard their speech quiet as she approached, and she tried to set the tea tray down with as little noise as possible. She thought that perhaps they wanted to continue their murmured conversation, and so she planned to back out as quietly as she had entered the small space. Without thought, she prepared Sherlock and John's tea as they each preferred it. Molly had had two real meals with John now and countless ones with Sherlock since this whole ordeal began, and if she knew nothing else it was how they liked their tea.

"Molly, love?"

She looked up at John's words, a questioning look on her face. Molly then thought that she was taking too long, and so mumbled an apology as she stirred John's tea. She stood and was about to scurry back out of the room when John's firm chest was all of a sudden in her field of vision. She stopped her forward movement and looked up at him, still not saying anything. Her face must have given her away: her uncertainty, her confusion, and her angst.

John could hardly blame her for thinking she was in the way. He and Sherlock had done nothing to make her feel as though her role in this whole mess would be anything more than a temporary balm on a volatile situation. He reached up and cupped her cheek, and Molly closed her eyes to savor the gentle contact.

"Molly, love, I'm sorry. I was heartless; I understand why you did what you did. I don't want to hurt you anymore." He said the words to her, but really meant them for Sherlock. He was afraid to look at the consulting detective for fear that Sherlock would know. He always knew everything.

"John," she whispered so quietly that he could only tell it was his name by watching her lips move.

"Shh, it's ok. Just let us make it up to you now." John gripped her arms tighter as he felt her lean into him. She reached for fistfuls of his shirt and he pulled her close, wanting her to take the comfort he desired to give her. Over her head, John caught Sherlock's intense stare. They had not discussed this beforehand, and John took a risk in proposing it to Molly before he did to the third participant in the room. Sherlock communicated only arousal in his features, however, and moved closer to the pair clutching one another.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 10

Sherlock had no idea what had changed. One minute, he was trying to make John see the wisdom of his methods and the next he was watching John apologize to Molly and propose a ménage encounter. For once, though, he was content to allow John to lead. He knew not where he was being lead, but was curious to find out. John was stroking Molly's back, and Sherlock watched the gentle motions with a stab of jealousy. Jealousy? _Hmm, that's interesting._

Sherlock was brought back to the present with a coo from Molly. He focused on the pair again and now John was stealing gentle kisses from her. Sherlock wished he knew how to be that gentle with her; she always seemed to respond to it rather well. _Of course,_ he thought with satisfaction, _I can get her to respond to me quite nicely when the mood strikes_. He wondered if John knew, or maybe just suspected, that he and Molly had already been together. He thought perhaps he should tell the good doctor so there were no more secrets – implied or otherwise – between them. Besides, honesty might even earn him a smile from Molly again.

Sherlock took action then. He stepped closer to Molly until she could feel him against her back, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. Her squeak of surprise caused John to pull back. John's eyes found Sherlock's, and he saw the desire and hesitation in them.

"John, there's something you need to know," Sherlock said as Molly leaned against him. He could feel the damp of her sweater through the dampness of his own shirt.

John smiled slightly: that statement was the understatement of the century. But he wanted no answers tonight. He just wanted all of them to get out of their soggy clothes and explore one another in the warm glow of the fireplace. He sighed, looking from Molly to Sherlock. The detective's fingers were kneading her shoulders, and her eyes were closed in bliss.

John shook his head, smiling slightly. For once, he already knew what Sherlock was going to say. _Of course they've already…but how could they not have?_ he thought. Aloud, he said, "I know, Sherlock," he murmured, reaching out to touch Molly's cheek. Her eyes opened, and the beautiful brown color was fairly black with longing. He could not believe she wanted two men as repressed and miserable as he and Sherlock, but he decided to make this good for her while still giving Sherlock his precious conversation.

"Molly, love, put your arms up." She obeyed, curiosity in her expression. "Sherlock, would you mind?" John made a motion with his hand toward her sweater, and Sherlock got the message.

Molly felt the detective's deft fingers leave her shoulders and slide down her sides to her sweater hem. He pulled the fabric gently up and over her head, and Molly warmed both from the fire and the heat in John's gaze.

"Beautiful. I knew you'd be beautiful," John stepped closer and Molly reached for him, holding his shirt again. He traced the strap of her bra from her shoulder to the lacy cups which kept her hidden from him. Sherlock eased the straps off of her shoulders, leaning down to taste the skin of her neck. He felt her encouraging coos as a vibration, and chuckled softly. He dared a glance at John, and found him raptly staring at the place where Sherlock's lips suckled Molly's skin. John moistened his lips and Sherlock's fingers dug into Molly's flesh. The consulting detective was not thinking too far into the future, but he hoped John would permit touching between them before the night was over.

John channeled his arousal into Molly's pleasure, and sucked down the other side of her neck, between her breasts, and then he felt Molly's nipple being fed to his waiting mouth. Sherlock had put his hands beneath her mounds and was holding them up to John. She threw her head back against the tall man, mewling with pleasure at the hands and mouths making her stomach do delicious tumbles. She lifted her arms to Sherlock's neck, offering herself wordlessly to the two men.

Sherlock stepped back, and was pleased when Molly opened her eyes looking for him. He kept his hand on her back to keep her balanced against John's oral onslaught, until she grabbed his sandy hair and readjusted herself.

"I'll be a moment," the detective said somewhat curtly. John and Molly watched him disappear into his vacated bedroom and then looked at one another. Both of their breathing patterns were labored.

"John, is this ok?" she reached up to touch his face.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he countered. John watched the firelight cast warm shadows over Molly's exposed skin, and wanted to throw her to the floor and ravish her at that moment.

The pathologist hoped to convey her answer without words. She didn't want to think about the implications of a night with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Mostly, she didn't want to think about what would happen with the first morning light. Tonight though, she could make her fantasies come true, and she could help two people who desperately needed to find one another. She gave John a shy smile. "I do want you both; I have for a while now. You both so need each other."

John held Molly's hands now, brushing his lips over her knuckles. "We need you," he whispered, taking her in his arms, kissing her soundly, deepening the kiss almost immediately. After a few moments, he pulled back. Her eyes were heavy and she had a small smile on her lips. John had no idea where Sherlock had gone to, but he wanted Molly out of her remaining clothes. He circled around her and unfastened her skirt, watching the fabric fall to the floor. Her underwear joined the skirt as John looped the waistband in his thumbs and, kneeling so he could worship her backside, caressed the wispy lace to the floor.

"That's a good position for you, John," Sherlock strode back into the room. Molly immediately looked to him, not sure what she was needing from him, but needing it all the same. She noticed the prominent tent at the front of his trousers, which told her he wasn't disgusted by what he saw. The tall man came to stand at Molly's side. The three of them formed a triangle, with Sherlock at the head, Molly nude, and John on his knees in front of Molly's bum. Sherlock bent down to kiss Molly, not touching her otherwise.

It thrilled Molly to be naked while the other two men were clothed. She loved their eyes on her slim form, but she wished one of them would _touch_ her already. Instead, after Sherlock released her from a heated kiss, he shared an equally heated look with John. She dared not move as Sherlock caressed her right arm with his right hand, at the same time hesitantly reaching out to John.

Dr. Watson could no more deny Sherlock's touch than he could deny himself air or water. He leaned into his friend's caress.

"Sherlock," John was surprised to find his voice so raw with need.

"Let's get more comfortable, shall we?" Holmes tugged on Molly's hand and let his other digits fall from John as he walked backward toward his bedroom. He wasn't given to romantic scenes, but he did want to make sure that he still had a bed in his bedroom, which was why he excused himself. After all, with the good doctor and Mrs. Hudson around, who knows what his bedroom could've been turned into? But no, when he peaked inside, his bed was still there, made with freshly laundered sheets. His paintings were still on the wall, and his dresser had been dusted recently.

It occurred to him as he stood to face a naked Molly and a very aroused John that perhaps John had anticipated his homecoming, even if the doctor just imagined Sherlock's return to be a fantasy. Sherlock suddenly was overcome with need: a need to have these two people as close to him as he could get them; a need to connect with John in a way they never had before; and a need to show them he was capable of feeling sentiment.

Once again, though, the army doctor surprised him by taking control of the situation. He came up behind Molly, putting one arm around her waist, the fingers there caressing the soft skin of her stomach. His other hand reached around to her breast, kneading the flesh until she moaned and leaned fully against him.

"John, please," she whispered against the skin of his neck, reaching out her tongue to taste the flesh before her. John grinned, looking up at Sherlock, his fingers still teasing her while he watched the consulting detective's face carefully. Sherlock's countenance communicated raw hunger, for Molly or John, the doctor could not tell. He knew he wanted Sherlock then, as he had never wanted any man.

"Sherlock," Molly reached out to the taller man. She loved John's mouth, and wanted it in much naughtier places, but she loved being between the two men more, and needed Sherlock to be close.

Sherlock approached slowly, cognizant of two pairs of eyes watching his every step. He came within arm's reach of Molly, and when she put her hand on his chest, grabbing his shirt, he willingly came flush against her petite form. She moaned at the pure pleasure of feeling hard muscle front and back, aware that John had stopped kissing her neck. She imagined John was watching Sherlock, but her gaze locked with Sherlock's all the same. He knew what she wanted; he placed his hand on her chin and lifted her face to the perfect angle for his kiss. He moved agonizingly slowly toward her, his own eyes darting from her eyes to her lips. Her mouth parted for him, and she could have sworn she heard John groan when her lips met the taller detective's. She clung to Sherlock, and whimpered when his tongue begged entrance, and she opened to him immediately.

"Molly, Sherlock, do have any idea how hot you are?" Molly heard John whisper against her ear, a second before she felt the fingers that were heretofore on her stomach move lower. She couldn't help moaning into Sherlock's mouth as John's very capable fingers teased her in a new way. The kiss ended when neither could be without oxygen a second longer, and Molly buried her head in Sherlock's chest. His arms supported hers immediately, and she gave herself over to the feeling of being crowded between the two men.

"John," Sherlock's husky voice caused the doctor to look up. The two men stared at one another over her slender shoulder, their own breaths coming faster in time to Molly's irregular breathing.

"Sherlock," John whispered back, the hand that had been teasing Molly's breasts tightened around her middle as he felt her control slipping.

After Molly had come down from her high, John shifted Molly's weight to Sherlock, who supported Molly while cradling her head against his chest. He liked seeing her naked skin against the deep blue of Sherlock's shirt. John couldn't help but smile; Sherlock behaved like a bull in a china shop most of the time, but every once in a while John observed this other man, considerate and gentle. He rather liked seeing the detective treat Molly as she deserved to be treated.

His own heart skipped a beat when he wondered if Sherlock would be that gentle with him. He hoped not. After all that had passed between them, gentle could come later.

Much, much later.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 11

Molly came back to earth slowly, enjoying the spiral down as much as she had enjoyed the climb upwards. She looked up at Sherlock, her arms wound around his waist, and smiled at him. He grinned at her, caressed her cheek, then looked at John. Molly's eyes followed his gaze, over her shoulder to where John stood not more than a foot away. She turned in Sherlock's arms so she could face John.

"John, I felt so…that was just amazing…I flew," she whispered with wonder. "You two" – she looked at Sherlock who was watching her with interest – "are so perfect."

John moved toward her, crowding into her space and making her look up to keep him in focus. "I can never repay you for what you did for me. I didn't even know what I needed when I came into your lab that day." He cupped her cheek, his own hand trembling with the emotion of his words. "When you let me kiss you, just being near you, being near him," John bowed his head, his words ending on a choked-back sob. Molly's arms went around him immediately, tears springing to her eyes as well.

Sherlock felt an uncharacteristic lump in his own throat as he released his hold on Molly so she could hold John. He did not know what to say or do, so he stood there doing nothing, feeling out of his element, turned on, and panicked all at once.

"Oh, John, you don't have to be sad anymore," Molly said to him, pulling back and making him look at her. "Sherlock is right here, darling. You can have what you want, what you need now."

Something in John clicked at Molly's words. She instinctively released John altogether, and, backing out of the middle position, moved behind John so that the shorter man was in the middle. John and Sherlock now had no choice but to face one another.

_How is it that Molly can be naked but I'm the one feeling exposed?_ John wondered to himself as he stared up at Sherlock. He felt Molly's gentle fingers working to shimmy his sweater off, and he helped her when the still-damp material stuck to his arms. After the fabric was disposed of, the seconds lingered on, and John did not know where Molly was but he knew if Sherlock continued to look at him the way he was, he would have to touch him.

"The thing is," Molly stated, as if continuing a conversation she had been having in her head, while getting between the two men again and unbuttoning John's shirt. "I have watched you be desperately sad and angry over two betrayals by someone who means a lot to you." Molly walked back around John, having unbuttoned the buttons she slid the shirt off his shoulders. She let her fingers skim the heated skin, impressed by the muscle she saw moving beneath. She moved in front of him again. "John, you have a second chance of sorts now. You decide where you go from here."

John's expression remained serious, and he did not say anything, curious as to what Molly would do now that he was without a shirt. She took his form in appreciatively, then bent forward and placed a gentle kiss on the skin covering his heart. She straightened, blinked once, and then turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," she began, running her arms up and down his still-clothed chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. She knew his eyes were lingering on his favorite parts of her, and she suddenly wanted him just as bare. She started unbuttoning the buttons of his shirt, "I've felt your passion inside me, and sometimes I can't believe the moments you've allowed me in are real. But, I know there is something else you long for." Molly moved to stand behind Sherlock and removed his shirt just as she had John's. His flesh prickled with goose bumps as her fingers trailed behind the shirt. When it was off, the dark blue fabric joined John's sweater and shirt on the floor. Molly looked at the clothes for a moment, gathered her thoughts, and then situated herself at the head of the triangle.

Both men watched her with a mixture of heat and trepidation. She smiled. After all, this was why they needed her. At least, this was why they needed her _tonight_.

Molly reached out for Sherlock's hand with one arm and John's hand with the other. John's fingers immediately tangled with hers, a warm reassurance. Sherlock's fingers danced across her skin anxiously.

"You both have brought me so much pleasure. And I look forward to being in the middle again, _very soon._ But now, it's time for you two to delight in each other." Molly nearly laughed at the twin looks of panic from the men. Instead, she said, "I'll not go far, just to the bed. I want to watch you…please." She stared at each of them in turn, and then put her hands together so that the two masculine hands had to touch. She felt no resistance in them; indeed, the two men were intently focused on their collection of hands.

She was not surprised when Sherlock finally released her digits to grasp John's more fully. John closed his eyes in pleasure, all the fear and insecurity seemed to go away as he held tightly to Sherlock. Molly stepped back until she felt the bed hit the back of her legs, and then let the mattress take her weight. She didn't realize she was trembling until that moment.

John swallowed thickly in the wake of Molly's absence. Sherlock's fingers played gently with his own nervous ones. He stepped closer to Sherlock, and was so close he could feel the heat exchange between their bare torsos. He let his eyes rove across the pale skin of Sherlock's chest, and without conscious thought his unoccupied hand mimicked the path of his gaze. At Sherlock's sharp inhalation, John drew back and started to mumble an apology. Perhaps Molly was wrong?

"John, do look at me," Sherlock's tone was almost pleading and sounded foreign. John did as the taller man requested. Sherlock's face was impossibly close to John now, and the desire in his gaze took the doctor's breath away.

"Sherlock, please, do it, I can't take this anymore," John heard himself plead. Sherlock's mouth turned up in a slight smile, and he grasped John's neck with his free hand and swiftly covered John's mouth with his own.

The kisses began as tender and exploratory, lips meeting for the first time, tongues hesitantly encountering the other, withdrawing, and then reuniting again. After a while, hesitancy gave way to passion, and Sherlock released John's hands so that he could press his bare skin to the shorter man's chest, all the while their kisses became hungrier.

John thought he would lose his mind when he felt Sherlock's heated flesh against his, followed a second later by the detective's groan in his mouth. John broke the kiss then, catching his breath, realizing he had a death grip on Sherlock's belt loops. He could feel Sherlock's arousal through his trousers, and John knew his own could be felt as well.

"I need to be close to you, please let me," the detective whispered as he grazed his lips over John's neck. John sucked in a breath and nodded, one hand coming up to entangle in the dark curls. He looked to Molly, not sure what he expected to see in her features.

All Molly said when John looked at her was a softly spoken, "It's alright, love. Go on." She still reclined deceptively on the bed, but she was alert to what was happening in front of her.

John turned back to Sherlock and with practiced ease, pulled his own boxers off his hips, letting them fall to the carpeted floor. John was not self-conscious, but he wondered what Sherlock thought as he stood before him. All at once, John decided he didn't care; he needed to be touched or he would positively explode. Suspecting Sherlock was feeling the same way, John hooked his fingers in the detective's waistband and pulled his boxers down, too.

"John you're going to kill me," this said around a groan. Sherlock was going to lose control. He never lost control. He never allowed his body to let go completely, not even with Kip all those years ago. Physically pleasure, sure; but the emotions he felt now worried him. Sherlock stroked John's face, being gentler with the good doctor than he ever thought he was capable of.

"Is everything ok?" John questioned.

"Right as rain. I think Molly is getting lonely."

Molly had been watching the scene unfolding before her with rapt attention. Now, as the men ate up the steps between them and the bed, she flushed red, sat up, and looked to the floor. Even though she had been naked between them, she wasn't ready for them to know just how much they affected her.

"No, love, don't do that," John was beside her in a heartbeat, his fingers beneath her chin. "Because of you this is the best night of my life."

"Quite right, John," Sherlock had positioned himself on the other side of Molly, his hands running up and down her arms as if to warm her. Impulsively, he crossed his arms in front of her torso and pulled her back into him. Molly reached up to grip his forearms in her hands, and she squirmed against him to tease him, liking the dark chuckle she got in return.

"Oh, playful girl," he murmured against her skin as he kissed her neck. "We're going to reward you for your excellent choice in lovers."

**Sometime later, Sherlock** found himself in the middle of his two doctors. He turned to Molly and whispered in her ear. "For the first time in my life, someone observed something I didn't. Thank you, Molly Hooper." He kissed her cheek, and as he settled on his back, she leaned into his side. Her breathing evened out almost immediately into a sleeping pattern.

John watched the exchange between Holmes and Molly. He was glad when Sherlock moved so that he was on his back. John wanted to touch him, and so flayed his hand across the detective's chest. A second later, Sherlock's piercing gaze was upon him. A second after that, the two were kissing again. John could not get enough of the other man's mouth; it was supple yet demanding against his own. He felt his arousal stirring again, and Holmes, who missed nothing, chuckled against his mouth.

"Sleep, John. You'll need your energy."

Now John chuckled, then felt a thrill run through him at the insinuation of Sherlock's words. He obediently closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow and his thoughts to calm. As soon as he focused on how exhausted he suddenly felt, unconsciousness claimed him.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Molly by Moonlight

Author: LizAMWriter

Pairing: Sherlock/Watson/Molly

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: Solid M. Sherlock loves both Watson and Molly; you have been warned.

Notes: I am not British, so please forgive any inconsistencies with British English. Reviews loved and much appreciated…flames will be used to kindle my imagination. Also, I have reworked this story specifically to fit the rating requirements on this site. If you are interested in the full version of my stories, please visit my profile to learn where to find them.

Molly by Moonlight – Chapter 12

Molly let the warm cup take the chill out of her fingers. She was up early – much too early to wake Sherlock or John – and so made herself some tea and sat down at their windowsill. The street was quiet at this hour, and it was just beginning to show the first faintness of dawn in the sky. She tried not to think about what would happen later in the day.

Inevitably, she would have to leave. Sherlock and John would want to explore their newfound…_whatever_ it is, and she would just be in the way. Molly sighed and squirmed uneasily in the chair. Remembering the heat of their encounter last night made her long for the impossible: a relationship with both men at the same time. She shook her head, trying to physically banish the images that would not leave her mind.

As she dwelt on these sobering realities, she heard movement and the quiet tones of talking coming from Sherlock's room. Molly wanted to go to them and join them, to have a truly good morning, but she didn't dare. It would just be terribly awkward when the men would have to tell her she wasn't needed any longer. _No_, she decided firmly, _it will be me who does the leaving_. Setting her tea down with sudden purpose, Molly headed for the bathroom near John's room. She tried not to imagine what was going on in Sherlock's bed at the moment.

"**Does she have** work today?" John asked his newly found lover. He had heard the shower start up, and it was so early that no one should be up unless they had to be.

"No, don't think so," Sherlock was distracted by the rough lines and hairs on John's chest, as his hands splayed across it in alternating patterns and pressures.

"Do you think she's alright?" John lifted his head to watch the detective, whose mouth was suddenly occupied by John's torso.

At John's helpless groan of pleasure, Sherlock looked up at him through hooded eyes. After that, no more words were exchanged as the two devoured one another with lips, hands, and any other part that was convenient.

**Molly brushed her** teeth quickly with the toothbrush she always carried in her handbag. Her damp hair fell in waves down her back, and she ran her fingers through it. She stopped what she was doing as a series of moans and pleasure-filled vulgarities erupted from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Thinking about Sherlock and John wrapped around one another made her body react instantly. She groaned with the knowledge of how good both of the men felt last night. She wrapped the towel tightly around her and secured it as she steeled herself to grab her clothes from near the fireplace.

Opening the door, Molly gasped as her eyes met John's bare chest. She quickly looked up at him, blushing at the thoughts that aroused her again, hoping he would not realize.

But of course, he knew. He knew they were loud and unabashed in Sherlock's bed. He knew she could hear them from his bathroom. What he did not know was why she didn't join them; why she kept herself at a distance even now.

"Hallo, Molly," he said in a tone he hoped would allay her sudden jitteriness. All of a sudden, it hit him that perhaps _she_ regretted last night, and that she intended to leave them. A millisecond after that, he knew he didn't want her to go.

"John," she whispered, keeping her eyes down. She was not planning on a conversation with either of them this morning, and she was so weary after months of emotional ups and downs with the two men that all she wanted to do was run to her apartment and hide. Well, no, that was not exactly true. She did want to hide away, but with Sherlock and John, not _from_ them. She sighed heavily.

This was how Sherlock found them a few seconds later: Molly close to tears and John panicked. He sighed. He hated the emotional aspect of being involved with people. It annoyed him how simple things could be but how complicated they always managed to become. He decided to take charge of the situation before Molly walked out on them. He could clearly surmise that was her intention. Crowding them both into the medium-sized bathroom, Sherlock started the shower again and pushed a still-naked John into it. He would have his turn to get clean after John; he was worried that if he left Molly alone for a second she would be gone.

And that was unacceptable, to his mind.

Molly did not meet Sherlock's eyes, but she let him move her further into the bathroom. She was forced to look at him as he bent down while bringing her chin up with his fingers.

"Molly," he said her name gently, trying not to seem intimidating for once. This was one line of questioning he could not afford to get wrong. "Why did you leave my bed?"

"I…I wanted to clean up."

Well, ok. Let's try a different tactic. "Why didn't you come back to my bed?"

"Sherlock, you and John have a lot to sort out. I thought perhaps you would prefer to do that without me." His eyes darkened and he looked at her hard now. Her next words did nothing to allay his annoyance. "That is, now that you have each other, you should be together."

"You think we want to be together without you?" Sherlock watched her carefully, and without needing to look, threw John a towel as he stepped out of the shower. John's features belied the turbulence the detective was feeling, but he had to be careful with Molly. Histrionics would do nothing to keep her with them.

"Well, as a matter of fact…yes. Last night was so lovely, but I know you only needed me to help get you to John."

Sherlock did not answer her; instead, he cupped her cheek gently and touched his lips to hers deliberately. He felt her tense but kept the pressure a few seconds longer. When he straightened, he looked to John.

"Stay with her. I'll be a minute."

John replaced Sherlock in her field of vision while Holmes showered. John said nothing, only moved her beside him at the sink, holding her hand while he cleaned his teeth. She stood awkwardly, her thoughts going in a million different directions and all filled her with doubt.

John turned to her when he had finished with his teeth; he had felt her trembling in the hand he held, and wanted to help her relinquish the fears that stopped her from enjoying herself. He cupped her face with both hands and leaned in very gently for a kiss.

Molly let out a breath that sounded more like a sob. She didn't think John would ever kiss her again after last night, and the relief his touch brought did more for her at that moment than any words could have.

"Molly, love, please, please don't cry," he gazed at her warmly, smiling. "I want you. I need you. Say you need me."

Molly nodded, unable to form the words. The next thing she knew, she was being held tightly against the doctor's chest. She trembled anew: a combination of relief and the chill in the air.

"Let's get a fire going, shall we?" John, seemingly always receptive to her needs, guided her back to the fireplace, where he built her another fire.

By the time the flames were large enough to warm Molly, John had guided her to the floor in front of the hearth after putting a blanket down for them. He held her in the V of his legs so that his body temperature would bring hers up. He knew from his medical training that emotions could wreak havoc on a body, and was relieved when Molly's skin began to take on a warmth and color that had not been there when she stood next to him in the bathroom. He caressed her arms, which were tightly crossed in front of her chest.

"Are you feeling better, then?" His voice was husky in her ear, and was punctuated by a kiss on her shoulder.

"Yes, I think so. I wish I could stay like this for ages."

"I'll hold you for as long as you will let me. Molly, look at me."

She turned in his arms obediently, no longer willing to fight the desire she felt for him.

"I won't hurt you purposely; do you believe me?"

Words stuck in Molly's throat, so instead of responding she simply nodded. She _did_ believe him.

"Good, because last night was the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me, and I want every day and every night to be just as good."

"Oh, John," Molly whispered, burying her head in his neck. He smelled of soap and maleness. Her fingers danced along his chest, and she smiled when his nipples hardened beneath her slender digits. John's own hands traced random patterns against the bare skin of her arms and shoulders as he gave her time to decide if she would have him.

Her gentle kisses and suckles against his neck were answer enough for him. Holding her forearms gently, he moved her back so he could see her. Watching her carefully for signs that she did not want him, he gripped the edge of her towel and yanked hard enough to make the material come loose. It pooled at her lap. He did not ever think he would get enough of her skin lit with the color tones of the fire, and he tried to burn the image into his memory.

"You are breathtaking," he murmured to her.

"John, I need you. Please." she swept her towel away and reached for the one that still covered his waist and upper thighs. He groaned and lifted himself slightly to aid her in her task. Although John wanted Molly badly, he did not want her on the floor. Suddenly standing, he helped Molly to her feet and guided her toward Sherlock's chair. He sat down on it and held both her hands in his.

"Come here, love."

She didn't even blink, wanting him so much that if he had put her across the desk, she would have enthusiastically encouraged it. As Molly straddled John's legs, she heard Sherlock come into the room.

He was too far away. "Sherlock," her voice sounded strangled. The detective closed the distance between them and himself in two strides. He had put on a pair of black trousers, not knowing what state he would find his two favorite doctors in. Now, though, he allowed the fabric to pool at his feet and he stepped out of them. Somewhere in his mind palace, a memory screamed a warning about getting too close and too sentimental. However, as Sherlock joined his lovers, he firmly locked that room and threw away the key.

**Molly struggled to** catch her breath against John's chest. They were still in the chair, and Sherlock had sank to his knees, putting himself at eye level with John and Molly.

"Do you see, Molly?" Sherlock asked, still sounding slightly winded. Her confused expression caused him to roll his eyes, but she only smiled at the gesture. "You are essential to this arrangement. Our pleasure is not complete without you here. Do you understand?"

She nodded, overwhelmed by the emotions flooding her.

But Sherlock wasn't done. He put his face close to hers and murmured, "I don't _want_ to be in this without you. I need you."

John tightened his hold on Molly to communicate to her that that went for him also. She sat up after a couple of seconds relishing his embrace.

"I need you both." She looked at both men in turn. "I want to try this…whatever _this_ ends up being."

Sherlock and John smiled at her. Sure, there would be challenges and hurt feelings along the way. And of course, they still had to decide what to do about Moriarty and bringing Sherlock – and his reputation – back from the dead. But Sherlock was no longer alone, John was no longer angry, and Molly was no longer uncertain. It was as close to a happy ending as the three of them would get.


End file.
